


All The President's Men

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Bargaining, Cheek Kisses, Faustian Bargain, M/M, Mild slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: We all know that Nathan Petrelli is destined to be President, after seeing the post-apocalyptic New York set five years into the future. But what could make that special day come sooner? And what will he do when he's offered the ultimate barter? Sylar knows that the only way to shape the future is from the White House. And so he offers Nathan what he desires the most. Set during Season One.





	All The President's Men

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2008 to Livejournal.

Fifteen politicians stood to attention in a line - the best men for the job, they arrived from each corner of the country to fulfil their sworn duty - to _inherit_ this earth. A globule of spit dropped down onto a shoe, back around the left leg for a swift polish, and repeated for the other. The aim was not only to dress smart, but sharp. Nathan Petrelli had been tipped as the favourite, the strongest contender at this White House gathering, but it _still_ wasn't in the bag for him. If only he didn't have to _wait_ for it, he thought.

Each of them saluted the President as he walked down the aisle, the national anthem playing ceremoniously in the background. It was awfully twee, and yet they felt so proud of themselves, even with their _lying,_ cheating antics, ballot rigging and sordid hired kills. And as an _Italian,_ he knew a _mobster_ when he saw one, and there were many here today. A comeuppance was due for all of their crimes but, it sadly fell to Nathan, though undeserving compared to the rest. Clutching his chest in pain, he found that he was unable to follow when the congregation broke away - they'd been invited into the Oval Office for a briefing - that's where _he_ should have been. But he couldn't get up. He lay, sprawled on the grass.  
  
What was _wrong_ with him? He must have been having another episode. Something was causing him to cough, willing him to wheeze - his windpipe wouldn't work properly. He padded down his pockets, urgently trying to track down an asthma spray. In his summer jacket it must have been - oh _dear_ Nathan, you _silly_ boy. He wasn't aware of any further allergies and the pollen count was low today - he should know - he'd been checking the weather forecast nigh on  _every_ day. He had a _very_ important impression to make and Mr. President wouldn't be best pleased to see him arrive in grimy, mud-encrusted Gucci loafers. This occasion had to be perfect, and so far it had been anything _but_.

He rested his afflicted body on a nearby monument, sitting up to allow the oxygen to flow into his lungs. His hands roamed the cold marble, hoping he could hold on just that bit longer. He didn't know who the statue was dedicated to but, if his greatest fears were to be realised, pretty soon he'd be joining them. "Anybody," he spluttered, sliding to the ground, "Is there a doctor in the house?" His condition was deteriorating.  
  
He didn't expect the red cross, but the 'men in black' at _least_ should have been here by now. The security guards had been all over him in the lobby - he was precious cargo - they wouldn't leave him alone for second. What he didn't know was, they _hadn't_ actually left him. The Petrelli had been singled out by someone to brave this  _alone_. And, dare he even _ask_ what evil force was behind what was to happen next.

"My God," he gulped, perched on the stone. In a flash, a bolt of lightning, the sky began to cave in. Darkness spread amongst the fields, around the statue where he was sat, the flowers and flora instantly dying in broken soil and badlands. Weeds and mutated plants then ate whatever else was left. He'd forgotten his own plight; this was _far_ too frightening to ignore. A pirate of life had plundered the hours of brightness and put a jolly roger, a flag of death and destruction, in place of America's own star-spangled banner. It poured into the air like caramel creme, a thin trickle formed a face - of features, of eyes, a nose and a  _ghastly_ mouth - upon the fluffy, once peaceful clouds.

"They're all looking for you," a voiced boomed down, "But they won't find you _here_ _!_ "  
  
Nathan found himself being wrestled to the floor by what was no longer an _unknown_ entity. It was a _human_ _being_ , with strangling fingers firmly around his neck. "Get off of me," he choked, finally loosening the grip with his own nimble hands. El Diablo had come to get him, The Big 'S.' Trundling across the grass, he dragged himself onto a paved walkway and up to some stairs. Breathe _first_ , he thought, before asking the big questions. Though he needn't have bothered - he _immediately_ recognised the man. It was _Sylar_.

"Cocksucker," Petrelli spat, "I should have killed you when I had the chance." He jumped to grab one way, and then another, but powers of invisibility and teleportation were one step ahead of him. "You've already had New York," he called out during the chase, "When are you going to leave us alone?" It began to spit with rain on what had been a truly glorious afternoon. Everything was under Sylar's control. He'd created a _world_ in which to snare him; a very clever ruse to coax him into his lair.

"You didn't think you were here to discuss modern policy, did you? We have far more important things to talk about..." Sylar walked slowly towards him.  
  
"I've come to make you an offer," Nathan listened to him say, "Say how about... the presidency?"

Sylar was surely capable of _anything_. And, as alluring as it may have been, our boy Nathan knew his right from wrong. He'd read Faustus in class; the charlatan alchemist who risked _everything_ for that kind of pact. But, even if they _knew_ what was right, it didn't necessarily mean that someone so easily corruptable would _do_ the right thing. He caught sight of something in the corner of his eye. Scurrying behind him was the angel on his shoulder - the ghost of Gabriel Gray, the watchmaker's son. Twinned with his own conscience, it could _hardly_ compete with the devil's dirty double-crossing tricks.

"Don't do it," a sound so quiet and faint, the shy figure struggled to keep his halo straight, "It will corrupt you."

Nathan had been cautioned. But he had witnessed what such great ability could do. And he needed a sample. "I want it!" he bit.  
  
"It shall be done," he sped over to be by his side, "Give it some time and, _soon,_ you will be the President of the United States." But when all was said and done, what was in it for _Sylar?_ "Me?" he pre-empted, "I shall be your intern, and _you_ shall do exactly what I say." The term conjured images of Bill Clinton that Nathan quickly tried to quash.

"And why me?" he asked him. He saw the angel Gabriel resting by a tree, playing as innocently as a child would with a selection of pocket watches.

"I need somebody the people will _trust_ \- someone noble and handsome - descriptions which fit you to a 'T' my friend." Flattery would get him _everywhere_ \- it was a deal. As his mother once told him, he was the _leader -_ the one to deliver them to promised land, and why should he wait any longer than necessary? He kissed him on both cheeks, continental-style, as if he was on a European visit, shaking his hand also. "You've made the right choice... I'll be in touch," Sylar added as they parted ways.

"Wait! How will I know what to do? When will I be promoted?" the congressman cried.  
  
"Don't you watch the news?" he said, fading into the distance.


End file.
